


couch burrito

by birlcholtz (justwhatialwayswanted)



Series: The Frogs [6]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Allergies, Gen, Hence the title, Sickfic, chowder is Goals and wraps himself in a blanket burrito, in which i write all of my struggles onto chowder, not all of them this is such fluff omg, sort of sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwhatialwayswanted/pseuds/birlcholtz
Summary: Chowder used to love rain. The allergies that came afterwards, when the pollen was all unsettled, were a small price to pay just for the novelty of having rain in San Jose.At Samwell? It's another story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> in which i am sick and i don't want to write but i do it anyway and try to live vicariously through chowder (i wish i could sleep on a couch for six hours ngl)

Back in California, Chowder loved rain.

It rained so infrequently that when it did, he would stand practically with his face pressed to the window, staring outside and watching the rain fall and make puddles. Rain felt special. Special enough that he didn’t mind that afterwards, all the pollen in existence would rise and fly directly into his nostrils, resulting in hay fever that felt like a combination of a cold and general lethargy.

In short, he was willing to put up with allergies after it rained.

But now?

“ _ Ugh. _ Didn’t it rain yesterday?”

“Yes,” Dex says, like he doesn’t get Chowder’s point.

“So  _ why _ does it have to rain today?” Chowder is on the couch, having rolled himself up into a burrito with various blankets (he did leave his arms free, though, so he could reach the tissues and the hot tea Bitty had made).

“The weather is an arbitrary being whose sole purpose is to make your life miserable.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Tango says as he passes through on the way to his room. “How can it be arbitrary while trying to make Chowder’s life miserable?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds good,” Dex replies as he turns back to his Spanish homework— the only requirement he had actually left unfulfilled beyond sophomore year. “Tango, you speak Spanish, how do I conjugate this?”

As Tango comes over to take a look at Dex’s homework (never let it be said that the Samwell men’s hockey team doesn’t have each other’s backs), Chowder grabs his backup blanket from where it’s lying folded on the floor and wraps it around his shoulders and head like a cloak. So he’s still cold.  _ Sue me. _ Unfortunately, that means even less mobility, and without the help of his arms, maintaining his half-sitting-up-half-lying-down posture on the couch quickly becomes unbearable, so Chowder lies down.

Even Bitty probably wouldn’t have a problem with it at this point, as he’s so covered in blankets he doesn’t think a single square inch of him is actually touching the couch.

The blankets are warm and Chowder can smell shortbread cooling in the kitchen, and without intending to, he falls asleep.

 

Chowder wakes up when he hears voices, but it’s the kind of waking up where all he wants to do is just go back to sleep, so he closes his eyes a little tighter and tries to shut out the sound of words.

“I hope he’s not dead,” someone says. “It would kind of suck if he just died because none of us were paying attention.”

“I don’t think he’s dead,” someone else says. “His eye twitched.”

“Can’t your body still make small movements right after you die, though? Like I read that was a thing.”

“I think that’s for when you get beheaded,” a third person says. “Ransom would be the person to ask for that, though.”

“He’s not dead, y’all.” That has to be Bitty, coming late into the conversation. “ _ Honestly.  _ I’m just worried he might have a fever, his face looks awfully flushed.”

“He said it was allergies.”

“He could be wrong.”

“I’ve never slept for six hours on a couch because of allergies.”

“Yeah, but Whiskey, you don’t have any allergies.”

“I’m allergic to cashews.”

“You’re  _ deathly _ allergic to cashews. You wouldn’t sleep on a couch for six hours, you’d just die.”

“Maybe we should wake him up then,” someone else says concernedly. “Just in case.”

“He’s not dead.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He just needs to get some rest. And also some Claritin.”

“Are you kidding me? Claritin does nothing. Zyrtec.”

“Claritin works for me.”

“It hasn’t worked for a single person in my entire family.”

“There’s Zyrtec in my room,” Chowder says without opening his eyes.

“Dude, I think he’s awake,” someone says at the same time that another says, “ _ Zyrtec. _ Fuck yeah.”

“No shit, he’s awake.”

“I’ll get your Zyrtec,” Bitty says. “Be right back.”

“Wow,” someone says. Chowder opens his eyes and discovers it to be Nursey. “Bitty didn’t even say anything about sleeping on the couch. Either he’s gotten desensitized, or he genuinely forgot because he was worried about you dying.”

“Chowder isn’t going to  _ die, _ Nursey,” Dex insists.

“He looks pretty alive to me,” Tango says.

“I feel undead,” Chowder says, pulling one of his blankets tighter around himself. “I hate rain.”

“Me too,” Bitty says from the staircase, where he’s descending with Chowder’s Zyrtec in hand. “Everything just looks dreary.”

“Then what are you doing going to school in Massachusetts?” Tango asks.

“Staying inside.”

“Seconded,” Chowder says. “I’m not leaving the Haus until at least one hour after this storm is over. Hopefully some of the pollen will have settled by then.”

“You’ll never leave the Haus at that rate,” Whiskey says. “It’s always raining here.”

“Small price to pay, honestly,” Chowder says. “I’m never leaving these blankets. They’re coming with me. Everywhere.”

“One of those is mine,” Dex objects.

“Good luck taking it back, then.”


End file.
